Turning off Bluetooth on everything else so my headphones stop trying to cheat on my phone with other devices
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You know what it hurts?
That I built my entire future with someone who was only passing time with me.
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This morning while playing and recording something for daddy, my intuition hit me like a truck.
I’m not the only one.
I know it might seem backwards to be concerned about being the only one when I’m still married, and daddy doesn’t know that my husband and I are trying to work things out, but he is the only one I’ve pursued sexually and consistently.
Plus, I didn’t start pursuing him until all the others were out the way and done, and I’ve been honest with him about that. Now we’re talking about finally seeing each other next month and while I would love that, I’m not gonna go through all the lying and secrecy if I’m not his only one. I know it’s hypocritical, I know. It’s likely even in my best interest that I’m not his only. That way if the sex is bad, or my husband and I decide to be all in, letting him down won’t be as bad.
I know he doesn’t want a relationship, and that’s good cause he’s not someone I would date anyway. But our kinks are the same and he’s great at dirty talk, so I wanna see what his dick game is like.
I still sent him a video of me playing with myself for him, but I made sure the dirty talk was heavily about being his only baby girl and his favorite nasty slut. We’ll see how he responds.
I’m not afraid to leave this opportunity to fuck. I’m fine if the yearning and nastiness is just digital. I think he might be a little more desperate (which I like). So I’m also just gonna ask him point-blank and the way he answers will let me know the truth.
My only rule for him was not to lie to me about other girls and he already has. Let us not forget he was in fucking Japan for TWO WEEKS with his ex he was about to propose to. So if I find out that there’s someone else, like I think there is, we’re done.
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Jonah Jameson: Parker! I shaid get picturesh of Shpider-Man, these are jusht pictures of my wife- wait a second…
Jonah Jameson: *shuffles through the photos*
Jonah Jameson: No wait - I shee now. These are picturesh of Shpider-Man fucking my wife. Carry on, Parker. Good sleuthing, Parker.
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I dont want to attend a wedding
I don’t care how perfect your fiancée is, give it four years
Enough about the marital problems divorce
I don’t care that’s your boyfriend he can turn me down and I don’t see him doing that :p don’t be mad at me go be mad at him for buying me a drink
Your wedding dress and cake looks the same as literally every other wedding dress and cake.
I DONT CARE ABOUT YOUR ROMANCE it means nothing to me. If no one’s gonna be excited and accepting of our aromanticism why should we reciprocate?
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Es imprudente y francamente débil utilizar a un tercero para compensar vacíos relacionales propios.
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September Prompts Day 7 Infidelity
AO3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/70174961
She waits. Her mate watches her. She twists her ring off, setting it on the table between them.
“Finally enough.” Geillis’ voice is soft with sympathy.
“I know. I should have left after the first act of infidelity.”
“Yes, but you loved him.”
Claire makes a sound of disgust. “How stupid am I?”
“Frank was your husband. You tried.” She pats her hand.
“As long as I could.”
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ꨄyou notice a change in your relationship ꨄ
||warmings:Cheating,Gaslighting
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“Toji where are you?!?! I been waiting for 3 hours already!"You call your fiancé not expecting to hear someone else on the other end of the phone.
"Who is this???”
“Umm his soon to be wife who are you?” you replied trying to hold back tears not wanting to believe all the posible situations that running through your mind. He couldn’t do this to you right?He promised never to hurt you after all.This is all just a sick joke.
“Oh sweetie are you dumb…”
You can hear Toji in the far distance of the phone call.“Who are you on the phone with baby?” This set something off in you , you don’t know what it was.”You can have him he’s just going to push you away like he did with everyone before you “ . You wondered why he did this to you.Did you do something wrong but you were nothing but sweet to him.Yeah you noticed him being different lately, Yeah he’d been coming home late from work.And yet you never expected him to betray you.You feel so stupid for believing him.For giving everything up for him.
…(2 Days later)
*48 missed calls from Toji*
*message:baby it’s not what it seemed*
*message:she was just a friend I swear it’s not what it seemed*
*message:Come on sweetheart you know I would never do this to you ,your all I need*
*message:y/n come on we’re about to get married ,you need me who else is gonna take care of you like I do*
(89+ messages)
——————————————
Message sent by gojo:Who’s gonna take care of her?? Oh please as if you ever could.Shes busy rn
*picture*
*message(toji):yo who tf is this?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ
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Borrowed Time
pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader
notes: Just a quick heads-up—this fic includes themes of infidelity, which I don’t usually write. It fit the emotional chaos of this particular story, but please take care while reading. The angst queen is back babyyy 👸
tags: no physical description of reader, heartbreak, smut with feelings, a lot of angst, we love pathetic man, drunk! Frankie, drugs mention, infidelity, exes to???, hate sex (kind of), hurt and no comfort
summary:He begged her to come over, and she did—but only to remind him what losing her really felt like.
word count: 2,6 k
He tried every band-aid under the sun.
Cocaine, whiskey, warm bodies in colder beds. Waking up in cities he didn’t remember flying to. Friends who stopped checking in, family who didn’t ask anymore. He tried pretending. He tried forgetting. He tried fucking it out of his system, but no one ever looked at him the way she did—like even his ruins were worth loving.
And none of it worked.
Now, he sat slouched against his kitchen cabinets, back to the cold linoleum, a bottle of something cheap and sharp between his legs. His head hung heavy, curls damp from sweat or the shower he took an hour ago. Maybe yesterday. Time didn’t work right anymore.
His phone blinked beside him. One percent. A last gasp.
He’d already tried calling. Twice, maybe three times. He wasn’t counting anymore. Counting made it real. But he was drunk enough not to care. Or maybe just drunk enough to finally say the things he kept locked behind his teeth.
His thumbs hovered, then tapped out another text. Sloppy, desperate, misspelled.
He stared at the screen, watched it shift from “Delivered” to “Read.”
Nothing after that.
The silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. The kind that echoed. He should’ve smashed the phone. Should’ve thrown it across the room like it could hurt less if it shattered. Instead, he sat in it. In the wreckage of what used to be a life. In the echoes of her voice that wouldn’t shut the fuck up inside his head.
He wanted her out of his system like poison but she’d fused into his blood.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth swig, his head tipped back. The ceiling spun, his throat burned.
She wasn’t coming, he knew that. Knew it deep. Knew it in the way she hadn’t looked back that last time. In the way she let him fall and didn’t try to catch him.
He didn’t blame her. Hell, he wouldn’t come back for him either.
The room pulsed with a dull hum, fridge buzzing, a loose window tapping in the breeze. His phone finally died with a quiet sigh.
Frankie closed his eyes.
Maybe this time, he’d sleep through the ache.
Knock.
His eyes snapped open.
Another knock. Firmer this time, measured.
He blinked, stared at the door in disbelief. No fucking way.
His legs didn’t work right when he tried to stand. The bottle clattered. He reached the door, heartbeat somewhere in his throat, hands trembling—not from the alcohol.
He opened it and there she was.
Hair a mess, hoodie zipped up to her chin. Her eyes glassy and tired and so goddamn her. She didn’t say anything, neither did he.
Because for a second, the whole world stopped and for the first time in months, the void quieted.
—
She didn’t say his name.
Didn’t even look him in the eye at first—just stared past him, jaw tight, mouth pulled into something sharp. Her arms were crossed like armor, and he felt it—like a punch right in the ribs.
Not a hug.
Not Frankie, are you okay?
Not even pity.
Just ice.
And fuck, he deserved it.
But he still drank her in like she was the first hit after days of withdrawal. He couldn’t help it. The slope of her shoulders. The way her hair curled from the damp night air. The smell of her shampoo cutting through the stench of his apartment like a memory he’d tried to drown a hundred times.
He wanted to bury his face in her neck, press his cheek to her stomach.
He wanted to beg.
Instead, she stepped inside and slammed the door behind her.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Her voice cracked—just a little—but she held steady. Like he hadn’t dragged her here through guilt and ghosted memories. Like he wasn’t falling apart just from the sound of her voice.
“I—” His throat closed around the words. Nothing came out but a dry rasp. “I didn’t think. I just—”
“Exactly.” She spun around to face him. “You didn’t think. You never think when you get like this, Francisco. And now I’m here, again, picking through the wreckage you made of yourself.”
He flinched. Couldn’t even look at her—not when she stood there so alive, so steady, even in her fury. God, he’d always loved that fire, even if it burned him. Not when he knew exactly what it felt like to fall asleep with her heartbeat against his back and wake up to sunlight in her laugh.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” he mumbled, ashamed of how small his voice sounded.
She laughed, bitter and hollow. “You shouldn’t have called me at all.”
She walked past him, brushing his arm. He inhaled like it might be the last time he ever caught her scent. His knees buckled under the weight of it—her presence, her anger, the absence of warmth.
She looked around the apartment like it disgusted her. The half-eaten takeout, the spilled pills on the counter, the whiskey bottle on its side. Her eyes lingered on his knuckles, red and cracked. Then she looked at him, really looked at him.
“You need help, Frankie. You need someone. But it can’t be me.”
He nodded. He fucking nodded because what else was he supposed to do? Say no, it has to be you? That he’s tried the world and none of it feels like home unless her hand is on the back of his neck and her breath is in his lungs?
Instead, he said, “I know.”
But she didn’t move. She stood there, breathing hard, arms still crossed. Her body pointed toward the door but her eyes stayed locked on him like she was still looking for the man she used to love in the ruins he’d become.
“I hate that you did this,” she whispered.
He took a shaky step forward. “But you came.”
She closed her eyes. For just a second,he saw it—her shaking. That softness she used to give him. That crack in the wall she built.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don’t use that voice on me. Don’t look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”
“I’m not using anything,” he breathed. “I just… I don’t know how to stop missing you.”
She turned her face away, but she didn’t leave. Frankie stepped closer. Just one step, but it felt like crossing a minefield. Her breath hitched. He saw it—felt it—and he latched onto it like a drowning man finding driftwood.
“You’re with someone else.”
His voice was low, raw. Almost reverent. “But you still came.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she snapped, but it cracked at the end.
“It does to me.”
She turned, fast, fury blazing in her eyes. “You think this is what I wanted, Frankie? To find you on the edge again? To get dragged back into your mess when I’ve been clawing my way out of it?”
“I didn’t mean to—” he started, but she was already stepping into his space, shoving her hands into his chest.
“Didn’t mean to?” she laughed, breathless and wild. “You never mean to. But it’s always me who gets the call when you’re breaking. Always me who has to fucking care, even when you stopped giving a shit a long time ago.”
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even flinch when her hands hit his chest again, harder this time—because underneath the anger, her fingers curled into his shirt, clutching, trembling with emotions too big and too tangled for this fleeting moment to hold.
“Why?” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”
He stared at her—messy and furious and beautiful in a way that made his heart split in two—and whispered back, “Because I don’t know how to breathe without you.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
And then she kissed him.
No warning. No lead-up. Just months of silence and ache erupting between their mouths like a spark to gasoline. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and salt and need, his back hitting the wall, her hands tangling in his curls like she hated how much she missed the feel of them.
Frankie gasped against her lips. “Fuck—”
“Don’t,” she hissed, yanking his shirt up, eyes burning. “Don’t say my name. Don’t make this anything.”
“You’re the one who came,” he choked out, helping her tug it over his head, her nails dragging down his chest. “You’re the one who kissed me.”
“And I’ll be the one who leaves,” she said, eyes locking on his like a dare. “So don’t get it twisted.”
But he didn’t fucking care.
Because she was here. She was touching him like her hands remembered the map of his body better than her heart ever wanted to. Like she hated how right it still felt. And when he picked her up, stumbled with her toward the bedroom, she didn’t stop him.
Clothes hit the floor in a trail of regret. Her hoodie, his sweats. She cursed. Shoved him back onto the bed. Climbed onto him like she was trying to erase every second they’d spent apart.
“I hate you for this,” she whispered, breath shaking, guiding him into her like a drug she’d sworn off but couldn’t quit. “I hate that I still want you.”
His hands slid up her thighs, all rough palms against soft skin. “Then don’t say my name when you come.”
She did anyway, more than once.
Her hips rolled slow at first—taunting, punishing—and Frankie gasped like her body was the first real thing he’d felt in months. His hands gripped her thighs like lifelines, eyes wide, chest heaving. She wasn’t soft tonight. She wasn’t his. But she was here, and god, she felt like home in all the worst ways.
“You still fit me like you were made for me,” he rasped, voice thick with reverence and filth, jaw tight beneath her.
“Don’t,” she snapped, but her nails dug into his chest like she didn’t mean it. Like she needed to hurt him just enough to stop herself from falling back in.
“You want this too,” he breathed, one hand sliding up her waist, slow, shaking, reverent. “Tell me you don’t.”
She didn’t because they both knew it would be a lie.
Instead, she leaned forward, hair falling over her face, and tugged at his curls—sharp and mean—and he groaned deep, eyes fluttering shut like the pain was worship. But he didn’t look away for long. When he opened them again, she was right there—all fury and fire and heat, riding him like she was punishing them both.
“Open your eyes,” she hissed, yanking his head back just enough. “You don’t get to pretend I’m someone else.”
Frankie moaned, chest arching into hers, hips lifting to meet her pace. “I could never. No one feels like you.”
Her lip curled. She hated how fast that got to her. “You don’t get to say that,” she whispered, broken now, her voice cracked from holding back everything else. “You had me. And you lost me.”
“I know,” he breathed, hand at the back of her neck, pulling her down until their foreheads touched. “I know, baby, I know. But I still dream about you. I still wake up reaching for you.”
“Shut up.”
Her hips snapped harder. “Shut the fuck up, Frankie.”
He did at her command, but the look in his eyes didn’t. It wrecked her—how he looked at her like she was salvation and sin at once. Like he was memorizing her face for the last time.
He didn’t beg now, not with words. He begged with his body, with the way he let her take control and clung to every inch of her like it was already slipping away. And when she leaned in to kiss him again—open-mouthed, desperate, teeth scraping his bottom lip—he whimpered into it like she’d touched something sacred.
She broke the kiss first, panting, pupils blown wide. “This doesn’t fix anything.”
“I don’t want to fix it,” he murmured, thumbing the corner of her mouth. “I just wanna feel you.”
She pulled his hand away, held it pinned to the mattress.
“Then feel it,” she spat. “Feel every fucking second of what you lost.”
And she moved harder, faster. Her anger blooming into heat, her want tangled in guilt, her breath catching every time he moaned her name like a prayer. Chasing relief.
Frankie’s hands were shaking now, trying to hold on, trying not to come too soon like a teenager overwhelmed by the gravity of her. “I’m not gonna last,” he gritted, forehead pressed to her collarbone, helpless.
“Don’t,” she dared. “Not until I say.”
He choked on a groan, fists balled into the sheets, trying so fucking hard to obey even as his body trembled from restraint.
And when she finally whispered his name—no venom, no fire, just raw, ruined softness—he broke too. Right beneath her where he always had.
—
The room was quiet now.
No moans, no gasps, no breathless curses. Just the sound of their breathing slowly leveling out—hers steady, his still shaking. Frankie lay flat on his back, spent, sweat clinging to his chest, heartbeat loud in his ears.
She stayed on top of him for a moment longer, thighs trembling around his hips, her head bowed like she was praying or trying to hold something in.
He didn’t dare to speak because even now, even with her body still wrapped around him, he felt the weight of her slipping away. Like this was all borrowed time.
Then—softly, like muscle memory—her hand lifted.
Fingers threaded through his curls, slow, tender. Just once. A single drag from his hairline back, the way she used to do when he couldn’t sleep. When she’d lie with him in the dark, calming the war in his head with nothing but her touch.
He closed his eyes.
Don’t do this, he begged silently. Don’t make this harder.
But god, it felt like coming home. Like a lullaby only she knew.
And then she said it. Quiet into the dark, almost fragile.
“I thought about you last week.”
Frankie’s eyes flew open.
She wasn’t looking at him, just staring somewhere past the wall like the confession hurt more than the sex ever did.
“I was at this lake house with him,” she continued, voice barely a breath. “It was quiet. Too quiet. And I started thinking about the way you talk in your sleep. The way you always pulled me close, even when you were dead tired. I thought about how safe I used to feel, even when everything else was falling apart.”
Frankie didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe.
“I hate you for making me miss that,” she whispered.
He turned his face toward her. “Then stay.”
She met his eyes and—for a second, just a second—he thought maybe she would. Maybe she’d at least consider it. But then she shifted off of him without a word, the loss of her body sending a cold shiver down his spine—harder, sharper than any fall after a high. She found her hoodie on the floor and pulled it on without looking at him.
“Don’t ask me again,” she said as she bent down for her shoes.
“I won’t,” he lied.
She walked to the door, fingers tightening around the knob. Her back to him.
He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, the bed still warm where she’d been. “Did you mean it? What you said about thinking of me?”
She hesitated but then gave the smallest nod and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her. Finality.
Frankie sat in the silence, the sweat on his skin turning cold, the sheets still tangled from where they collided like lightning and loss.The bed smelled like her, it would for days. And he’d lie in it, in that scent dying a thousand quiet deaths in the ghost of her warmth. Drowning in the echo of what could’ve been, what once was, what he’d just lost all over again.
thanks for reading 💌
tags: @speaktothehandpeasants@sxnnimoon @harriedandharassed @kungfucapslock@felix-enthusiast@bergamote-catsandbooks@kakiki3@la-vie-est-une-fleur29@capuccinodoll@whirlwindrider29@jolapeno@cuteanimalmama@christinamadsen@sheepdogchick3@mysterious-moonstruck-musings@brittmb115@greenwitchfromthewoods@diabaroxa@glycerinrivers@biapascal@copperhalfcent@beaniebailey@thepilatesprincess@axshadows@kirsteng42@joelsgoodgirl@ellenmunn@matchalov3@canadianfangirl-95@picketniffler@hotforpedro@tuquoquebrute@noovaarq@warmdragonfly@theanothersherlockian@littleluc@76bookworm76@inept-the-magnificent@confusedpuffin@wheatmaze@rav3n-pascal22@picketniffler@lostinmyownmaze@misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia@pasc4lfuzz@cheekychaos28
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He’s moved back and we’ve been talking everyday. It’s inevitable we are going to fuck, but why am I hesitant. In the past couple years I’ve focused on my self and I’ve gotten the body Ive always wanted. I know he will like what he sees but will I? Are my expectations too high? What if I am disappointed and why do I care so much. It won’t be the first time I’ve been disappointed by a man.
I mean he’s exactly what I like. Married.
I feel zero remorse. I don’t want to make any excuses. Yeah it’s wrong but the thing is it doesn’t bother me. I am not the one married. I love the thought that I can be with him and I am able to leave and not have him ask where I am, what am I doing.
I get a kick of having a married man lust over me. My favorite line is
“I’m yours you can do whatever you want with me.”
In reality he has no power over me. It isn’t my first rodeo.
I like to grabbed their face and tell them to look at me while we are fucking. It drives them crazy.
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he told me all he wanted is understanding in our relationship but all i could think about is the three and more girls he talked to the one time i made him mad, very hard to understand you when you sexted other women
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So there’s a guy who has been flirting with me on my NSFW blog for a few weeks now. And I’ve mostly ignored him because my mind was so preoccupied with the other characters I’ve written about on here, but I was really horny this morning and he was very available.
Now we have moved to WhatsApp and have been chatting regularly and sexually all fucking day.
What makes this even better is that he’s married. He’s married, I’m married, we both know that we’re married and we both know that we’re not really in open relationships right now, but are still doing what we’re doing. And that’s super fucked up, but it works.
We have similar kinks, and he knows just what to say to get me wet. I think I’m gonna like riding this train for a bit. 😈
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1.18.25 | 10:06 a.m.
I’ve sent ETS so many unhinged horny messages this morning.
He hasn’t seen/responded to any of them.
I’m so embarrassing and I don’t even care frfr.
You’ve got a fiancé, I’ve got a husband, we’ve both got futures with shit to lose. Might as well go out with a bang. 🤷🏾♀️
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My Tears Ricochet
Ambessa Medarda x Reader
Part One of: Our Tears Ricochet
Synopsis: You and Ambessa have been married for nearly two decades—and your love was one many people could only dream of achieving. But when your wife leaves overseas to visit her daughter, you strained relationship finally reaches it’s peak.
cw; afab!reader; angst ; infidelity ; local cuisine makes an appearance ; suggestive behavior ; Ambessa being a bad wife
Special thanks to @hell0-ki55y for the prompt. I hope you like it :). Might do ‘Pretty In Pink’ one next.
……
The warm ocean breeze flowed through your (h/c) hair as you gazed upon the horizon. The ship slightly rocked side to side, and you knew you were bond to get seasick soon.
You were currently on your way to visit your wife—the formidable General Ambessa Medarda. She had recently took leave from Noxus to come to Piltover, though her reasons were scattered. You two shared a constant stream of letters back and forth, and she told you how the journey went and her rants of disgust towards the council. Sometimes that’s all she wrote to you about. You didn’t mind. What you did mind—however—was when the letters stopped coming.
It started off small—you wrote one letter to her and didn’t get a reply. Simply shrugging it off and saying to yourself ‘maybe it got lost in the mail’, you sent another….and another…and another. It didn’t take long for you to suspect something.
Piltover was as greedy as they are unpredictable. While you doubt they would’ve done anything to Ambessa (considering they would lose much,much more than they’d gain), you wouldn’t take any chances. Anything could’ve happened.
She could’ve fallen ill—or worse. At first the thought of it simply slipping her mind was there, but it quickly vanished. Ambessa was never one to let anything associated with you slip her mind.
What really set your suspensions high was when her daughter, Mel Medarda—who you had a close relationship with for most of her life, one you cherished—replied to a letter you sent asking about Ambessa.
‘You should come see for yourself.’
The sentence left you in a state of confusion—but also reassurance. Ambessa was fine, but….something was wrong. It wasn’t how your wife doing….
It was what your wife was doing.
……
The ship finally arrived at the docks of Piltover. The few servants and guards that were aboard the ship disembark and helped you unload the few bags you brought with you.
You looked around—searching for Ambessa. You had sent a letter saying you were worried for her and would sail there, but you knew she hadn’t gotten it.
Instead, you were met with the council member and your lovely step-daughter—Mel.
She smiled as you approached. It had been a while seen you’d seen each other, and she towered over you. You engulfed her in a big, warm hug—one that she seemed to desperately need.
“Oh, Mel…”, you said into her shoulder.
“Mother…”, she whispered back. She had gave you the title years ago, yet sometimes, you still felt you didn’t deserve it.
The two of you shared a moment of silence, taking in each other. Her gaze was soft and warm, yet pity lied beneath it.
You smiled and held onto her shoulders. “Mel, look how much you’ve grown!”
She laughed, “Wish I could say the same for you.”, she said as she gazed down at your shorter frame.
You bumped your hip against yours as you two intertwined your arms. “I stopped growing many, many years ago. It’s something I’ve came to peace with.”
The two of you continued to talk as your servants and guards trailed you with your few belongings. You commented on the things you saw, asked Mel how her position as a councilwoman was, and who her new boy-toy was all about. She visibly cringed when you brought him up. Though, she would’ve dwelled more on that topic than the one involving the whole reason you came here.
“What’s going on with your mother?”, you finally asked.
Mel looked around, now slightly uncomfortable. She replied to you with a simple “Hm” as the two of you continued walking. You halted her in her tracks.
“Hm? Really? Your mother’s acting weird..and now you too?”
She bit the inside of her mouth before she sighed, now fully facing you. “Did you notice anything strange before she left?”
You were taken aback by her question, but after a moment of thinking , you answered, “Well, she has been quite distant as of late. But, you know how she can get. And she hasn’t been reply to the letters I’ve sent her.”
Mel looked at you as if she had solved a puzzle—the thoughts connecting in her mind. But there wasn’t an ounce of celebration on her face. She grabbed both of your hands, contemplating what to say next. “I’ll take you to see her. She’s not far from here.”
You looked at Mel in confusion, while she took you softly by the hand and led you towards Ambessa.
The rest of the walk was spent in an uncomfortable silence.
……
You arrived at a beautiful building. While the sight of it was breathtaking—it was as just as plain as the rest of Piltover.
Mel nodded towards the entrance. “She’s in there”, she whispered.
You nodded, and signaled for your servants and guards to wait here. You hiked your skirt and began to ascend up the white stairs. You spared one more glance in Mel’s direction, and found her speaking with your servants and guards. Your excitement was uncontrollable as you got closer and closer to the entrance. You hadn’t seen your wife in weeks—and the things you wanted to do to her were unspeakable. You bit your bottom lip just thinking about it.
For a moment, you could hear was sounded like men’s laughter. You brushed it off, until you heard it again—though this time it was muffled.
What had taken you aback the most—however—was the sound of your wife’s deep, low breaths. The ones she made when she…
No.
After an eternity, you reached the top of the stairs. And it took everything in you not to scream right then and there.
There Ambessa was, her back turned to you as she sat upon a large, lavish couch. From where you stood, you could see her the coils of her grey hair fall on her shoulders as she laid back. Sat perched on her lap was a man—with fiery auburn hair and pale skin. He was petite and charming—almost like a woman. His lips were full as he licked them and his green hungry eyes raked over your wife’s frame.
Her honey-kissed hands roamed his body in ways only she had promised to touch you in. You felt a mix of emotions all at once at the sight. Anger, resentment, confusion, surprise, sadness. You wanted to scream and shout. Every painting and vase in the room didn’t know how much you wanted to break it.
But instead of doing any of that, you simply whispered her name.
“Ambessa?”
The man’s eyes shot open as he suddenly looked towards you. Embarrassment and surprise was evident on his face, but he made no move to get off Ambessa’s lap.
Your wife finally turned around to catch your eye, and you’d never seen her looked so surprised. Looking her in the eye was your breaking point as you rushed out the room, hot tears streaming down your face.
“Y/N!”, she called out your name, but to no avail. She moved to get up, but noticed the twink still on her lap.
“Get off me, you fool!”, she roughly pushed him off. He fell to the floor with a thud and stared at Ambessa’s frame as she raced out the room. The wine was long gone—now spilled across the once white pristine floor.
“Wait! Y/N!”, she called out once again. She looked around frantically, and noticed some of her guards stationed at the bottom of the stairs.
“Stop her!”, she commanded, but they ignored her as they ushered you into a car.
Mel closed the door just as her mother was about to approach. She pulled on the handle, only to find it locked.
She stopped to look inside the glass, and found the last person she was expecting—Mel. She looked at her mother sternly in disappointment through the glass. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy. She simply shook her head. With a wave of her hand, the car was off.
Ambessa stood there dumbfounded, angry, and regretful.
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all this effort for somebody who can’t even control their urges.
i hate myself i’m ngl amigas it kind of hurts